


Death and All His Friends

by orphan_account



Series: A Thousand Demons [15]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-12
Updated: 2013-03-12
Packaged: 2017-12-05 01:53:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/717504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It wasn’t the first time Dean had died. He’d been to Hell and back plenty. But that never took the sting out of it. Sam still sobbed so hard his entire body shook when he held Dean’s cold figure, trying to urge his own body heat back into Dean, under the impression that would give him life. The tears poured out relentlessly, and Sam didn’t give a damn that he was in the middle of a street, blood staining his hands. The blood smeared on Dean’s face as Sam clutched at it, but he hurriedly moved one hand back to cover the bullet wound in Dean’s chest. Not that it helped.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Death and All His Friends

It wasn’t the first time Dean had died. He’d been to Hell and back plenty. But that never took the sting out of it. Sam still sobbed so hard his entire body shook when he held Dean’s cold figure, trying to urge his own body heat back into Dean, under the impression that would give him life. The tears poured out relentlessly, and Sam didn’t give a damn that he was in the middle of a street, blood staining his hands. The blood smeared on Dean’s face as Sam clutched at it, but he hurriedly moved one hand back to cover the bullet wound in Dean’s chest. Not that it helped.

Sam drove the Impala back to the bunker without his coat. It was laid in the back seat, under Dean. Dean would kill him if he got blood in the Impala. When he parked, Sam sat motionless in the seat. He stared out the windshield for hours. He watched the stars go out, and the sun rise. But he would not look into the back seat.

He called for Cas. No one answered. He called again. Still, emptiness. Again and again, until Sam had shouted himself hoarse, until he was cussing into the night air. _“Bring him back, you useless piece of shit! Bring him back!”_ And still, there was no answer. Sam collapsed onto the dashboard, hiding his face in the steering wheel. He was crying, but he couldn’t find tears. It was just heavy breathing and shoulders shaking. The blood on his hands and smeared across all his clothing was dried now. 

Sam took the shovel out of the trunk, and walked solemnly into the woods nearby. He dug, and he dug. The pile of dirt grew high, but not too high. Sam wanted Dean to be able to climb out. He didn’t have a coffin, he felt bad. He walked back to the Impala, and shakily opened the back door. He stood silent for a moment, motionless. The day was cold, but Sam couldn’t feel the wind nipping on his skin. He couldn’t feel anything, really.

So he picked up his brother. He weighed a lot when he wasn’t supporting his own weight. But Sam had carried Dean before. Many times if he was unconscious, or seriously hurt. Once, when he was dead. And so now, twice. Sam would stumble along the way, a small rock or root, and Dean would jolt in his arms. Sam’s heart would leap, but it would crash and break again.

That day, Sam buried his brother, not for the first time, and Sam hoped not the last, because that would mean Dean was back again.

But that day, Sam began to bury himself. At first, he buried himself into his work. But then, he felt the weight of alcohol pressing him into the grave as he drank himself to sleep at night. And then, the weight of blankets, as he slept all day, only moving to eat. Sam was dead too, and something shell-like had taken its place. 

Castiel had watched Sam descend, and it tore at him. But he could not go. He was stuck, held hostage in Heaven. A sick twist of fate. He heard Sam plead his name in his drunken stupors, and he tried to go, but he was always stopped. The last time, they had threatened him. They had held and angel blade against his chest, and dug lightly into the skin, ripping his clothing. A small drop of light leaked out, and the message was clear. Castiel was not afraid to die, but he could not help his friends if he was dead, and that in itself was worse than death.

Until one day, something had become distracting in Heaven. Castiel and his two boys were no longer a priority. Cas didn’t know what it was, but he didn’t care. This was his chance. He broke free, he escaped. He did not go straight to Sam, but went straight to Dean. He knew his time was limited before the other angels suspected. He drug Dean out of Hell, branding him again, stitching him back together. But as he pulled on Dean, something pulled on Castiel. Dean was saved, but Heaven had reclaimed Castiel.

Heaven kept their promise, and Castiel’s wings burned into the grass out in those woods.

Sam lay in his bed. It had been a year, he thought. Maybe a little more, maybe a little less. Sometimes he forgot when time passed. Weeks would rush by with little notice. He vaguely remembered driving the Impala out to get some food, but every time he noticed the small red stain on the front seat, and started to sink back into his shell. 

Today though, Sam felt himself falling deep into the grave. He rolled out of the bed, and walked into Dean’s room. He had avoided it all this time. Going in maybe once or twice, just to catch that smell of leather and whiskey again. Dean had a nice array of weapons on the wall. Sam had always liked that one particular handgun. So he picked it up. 

Sam’s jacket was on Dean’s bed, still covered in Dean’s blood. Sam picked it up with his other hand, turning it over and over. He felt a tear roll down his face, the first in a year or so.

A shot went off.

Dean brushed the dirt from his face. He didn’t know where he was. He had been dead, again. _“Great. Now where’s Castiel’s feathery ass? He’s gotta be around here somewhere.”_ Dean wiped his grimy hands again, and trudged on in one direction. He reached a road, and recognition flooded through him. He was near the bunker. That was good, Sam was probably close. Dean smiled at the thought of seeing his brother. He knew Sam would’ve been distraught, and Dean wasn’t sure how long he had been under. He trudged along.

Dean got to the bunker, he opened the door. He called out Sam’s name, wary as ever. A gun in one hand and holy water in the other. No reply, and Dean’s awareness heightened. He glanced into Sam’s room. Ruffled sheets, and a disturbing amount of alcohol. He must have been gone a while.

Dean continued looking. The bathroom, the kitchen. And finally, his own room.

He found Sam in there, bleeding on the floor, his hand tightened immovably around a very bloody jacket. The gun spiraled away, having left its bullet behind. The holy water spilled around Dean’s feet as it dropped. The blood had not even dried completely. 

Dean sat down on the floor next to Sam, pushing his brother’s hair back from his face. It was greasy and unkempt, and Sam had even let his facial hair grow out. Dean laughed. He laughed so hard his stomach hurt. And then he cried. He cried out for Cas too. _“Please help him.”_ But dead men can’t hear, of course.

The police found the bodies a few months later. First the man in the woods. He made headlines, with his strange, wing-like scorches. Investigations led them to the bunker. 

_Report Filed: September 14th  
It appears the two victims in the bunker participated in a joint suicide, using the same gun, as indicated by the bullet records. There was no identification on them, but several fake I.D. badges were found in the black 1967 Chevrolet Impala parked nearby. The system has no report of either of these men, but a DNA test reveals they were brothers. No connection has been made yet to the other victim._


End file.
